Everything pressed.
Everything organized.
I select ablack Armani suit, sliding it carefully off the hanger. Ablack Ferragamo dress shirt and asilver Hermès tie.
Dressing properly takes time—deliberate movements.
Every button aligned, tie knotted with precise symmetry. My custom etched silver cufflinks click neatly into place. One has my initials, the other is simply a number… twenty-two.
Finally, I step into myblack Prada brushed Spazzolato shoes, the leather gleaming beneath the closet lighting.
I return the mules to their exact spot inside the custom shoe drawer I had built and head to my foyer, grab mycity bag,and slide the strap across my body.
As I move toward the front door, Fucker looks up from grooming his paw.
I point at him. “Be good, Fucker.”
By5:32 a.m., I’m already on my way to the office, right on schedule. I walk the two short blocks to the office, choose to take the stairs this morning, and step out onto the floor ofBowen, Saxon & Finley.The first thing that greets me is silence.
Perfect.
The bullpen stretches out across the open space to my left—rows of desks, monitors dark, chairs neatly tucked in. Not a single paralegal or junior associate in sight yet.
My favorite time of the day.
Quiet hours—the entire reason I get up before dawn.
From five-thirty to about eight-thirty, the firm belongs to me. No calls. No partners dropping in. No paralegals needing something “quick.” No meetings that could have been an email.
Just work.
I walk past the empty bullpen, my shoes clicking softly against the polished floor.
I’m almost to my office when movement catches my eye. Someone is standing near my door. By the time I reach it, the door is closing and my new assistant turns toward me.
She smiles easily. “Oh—good morning, Mr. Stark. Sorry, I was just stocking the beverages in your office.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying her.
She continues, completely unfazed by my scrutiny. “I noticed your last assistant only had still water and ginger ale on offer,” she says matter-of-factly. “That just won’t do.”
I say nothing but she keeps going. “I had two sparkling water options, diet and regular sodas, and vegetable juice delivered. Now you can offer a variety to clients.”
I blink. “Thank you, Dita,” I finally say. “That’s very observant. But it’s not even six in the morning. You know you don’t need to be here until nine, right?”
She shakes her head then holds out her hand, palm up.
I raise a brow.
“Bag,” she says calmly. “Jacket.”
I stare at her.
She stares right back.
Slowly, I slide the strap of my bag over my head and place it in her waiting hand. She steps closer and helps me slip out of my jacket, then she moves around me toward her desk.
I watch her closely. Her finger is hooked carefully inside the collar of the jacket, so it doesn’t crease.
